


Cold Pasta

by greysynonyms



Series: Detroit: Become Human Songfics [5]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Androids, But he's a mess, Depression, Dpd, Emotional, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Future, Hank is a fucking mess, Hank-centric, Happy Ending, I love him, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Just a mention of him, No actual Connor, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Police officers, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Tension, good ending, mature themes, this one is pretty dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 20:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15155507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysynonyms/pseuds/greysynonyms
Summary: Because it's time that Hank knows.





	Cold Pasta

**Author's Note:**

> “And truth be told, I never was yours”

       The pan of homemade lasagna is filling your car with a wonderful smell and you honestly can’t wait to dig into it. You left your place early enough that when you arrive at Hank’s house his car is still out front, pulled haphazardly into his lawn, and you’re glad--you had worried that he may have already left for the bar. It wasn’t often that you showed up for an unannounced dinner, you certainly hadn’t done it since the accident, so you feel it’ll be a welcome surprise for the old lieutenant. 

       You close your car door as quietly as possible to avoid alerting Sumo and carefully balance the pan of lasagna on one arm while you fish through your pocket for your spare key. You smile happily when you unlock the front door--because you’re glad to be back, glad that Hank still trusts you enough to let you have the only spare key to his place, glad to be able to share a quiet evening in with him. You’re just happy. 

       Sumo barks deeply when you step through the doorway and you giggle when the giant Saint Bernard nearly tackles you to the ground in your excitement. “Sumo, careful!” you laugh, holding the food high over your head to prevent it from being knocked out of your arms when Sumo jumps up to lick your face. You scruff his head quickly, “I missed you too, boy.” Once Sumo has finally finished his greeting you can’t help but frown--where the hell is Hank? “Hank?” you call. “I know I wasn’t invited but I figured you could use a good dinner for the first time in probably months.”

       The silence that follows is alarming but you try not to get yourself too worked up about it--he’s probably just napping or something. You walk to the kitchen in order to set down the food and the pan slips right from your hands, clattering to the floor, the glass cracking and lasagna spilling out all over the tile. You rush forward, because it’s all you can think to do, and swat the gun out of Hank’s hands; it hits the floor noisily, skidding to a stop under the counter far from arms-reach. 

       Hank looks confused for a long moment before his eyes slowly raise to meet yours. “(Y/n)? What the fuck do ya’ think yer doin’?” he says with a slight slur to his words.

       You try to assess the situation as calmly as you possibly can around the racing of your heart. You take in the disheveled state of the lieutenant, the wrinkles in his worn-out t-shirt, the stained sweatpants, the messy flop of his grey hair into his eyes, the light flush of the beginning of drunkenness on his cheeks, the way he sways slightly in his chair. Your eyes then skirt to the kitchen table, to the almost-empty fifth of whiskey sitting beside an old photo of Hank with his son from so many years ago. “W-What were you trying to do?” your voice cracks over the question even though you already know the answer. You've known for a long time, or at least had your suspicions, but to see it in person is doing terrible things to your heart.

       Hank rubs his hands over his face exasperatedly, “Look, I don’t have time for this. Why’re you here?”

       You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from shouting at him. “I’m here because I thought we could have dinner together.” 

       He scoffs a laugh, lifts the bottle of whiskey off the table and makes a move to suck down the rest of it. but you’re faster than him and you manage to rip it from his hands and throw it to the floor before it can even reach his lips. “Hey!” he shouts angrily, watching the amber liquor leak all over his kitchen floor. “I was drinkin’ that!”

       You’re closer to him now and without thinking about it you pull your hand back and slap him across the face, hard. “Do you think this is a joke?!” Tears well in the corners of your eyes and your fingers sting from the force of the smack. 

       Hank rises to his full height, suddenly looking much more sober than he did just moments ago; at such a close proximity he towers over you, forcing you to look up to meet his hard gaze. “Does this look like a joke to you?” he asks you slowly, gesturing to the table, to the photo, behind himself. 

       Your lip trembles. “You were just...going to kill yourself? Just like that? Let Connor and I find you dead in your kitchen?” 

       “Look, (y/n), I really don’t want to hear this from you,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

       “You don’t want to hear it?!” You shove against his chest, causing him to lose his balance and fall back into his chair. You’re seeing red, head filled with images of what could have been had you arrived even seconds later than you had. You can picture his body, lifeless, pale, sprawled across the tile floor surrounded by a pool of blood. You can picture his fingers wrapped around the gun, barrel still hot to the touch. But what you can’t imagine, no matter how hard you try, is never hearing the sound of his voice again, or never seeing the small smile he gives you on rare occasions again; you can’t imagine not having to buy two coffees in the morning on the way to work, and you can’t imagine never feeling the cushion of his chest beneath your cheek when he hugs you. “Do you--do you have _ any _ idea?” You can feel the hot slide of tears down your cheeks but you don’t bother wiping them away. You grab the collar of his shirt, bunch your hands tightly into the fabric and shake him as best you can. “Do you have any idea what you mean to anyone?! What you mean to me?!”

       He scoffs, makes an attempt at rolling his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, alright?” he waves you off.

       Your eyes dart from him to the photo on the table, to the image of Hank with a smile that you’ve never seen in all the years you’ve known him, and you know it’s unfair but you so, _ so _ desperately want to see that smile, want it to be all for you. You want him to understand how fucking much you care about him, and you want him to understand how important he is, not just to you but to everyone who he’s allowed to get even semi-close to him; you just don’t know how--you’ve tried telling him so many times but words seem to bounce off his tough exterior without ever truly reaching him. 

       That’s right--words won’t work, Hank has always been a man of action. 

       It’s so obvious.

       You don’t really think about the consequences as you step around Hank and lean down to lift his gun off the floor because every time you blink all you can see behind your eyelids is his desk at the station, clean and empty because he’s  _ gone _ . The thought shakes you to your core.

       Hank is watching you intently, eyes sliding from the weapon in your hand up to meet your eyes and, suddenly, he’s looking a lot less drunk and a lot more worried. “(Y/n)...” he starts slowly. 

       Fresh tears fall from your eyes as you trace a finger over the trigger. “You know I’m in love with you, right?” you ask softly, because you can’t help it, because you’re tired of skirting around it constantly. Because Hank is a man of action and what better way to show him how you’re feeling than to really _ show _ him. You hear him shout something, maybe your name, as you lift the gun to your temple. You close your eyes, feeling content for the first time in a long time, weightless with the confession now in the open. “Please, take better care of yourself,” you say, and then you squeeze the trigger. 

       At least, you try to, but then Hank is standing so fast that his chair tips over, his large hands violently ripping the gun from your hand and throwing it across the room before you have the chance. To be perfectly honest you weren’t really going to pull the trigger with the gun aimed at yourself, no, you’re not  _ that  _ crazy. You were going to twist it at the last second (and maybe, potentially, fire a shot into the ceiling but, hey, it would have gotten the point across), but Hank beat you to the punch; you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him move that quickly before.

       “What in the fuck is wrong with you?!” he shouts furiously. “Do you have any idea what could have happened?!”

       He sounds so angry, angrier than you’ve ever heard him sound, but you can’t help smiling up at him like a lunatic. You’re alive. You’re alive, and so is Hank. The adrenaline racing through your system gives you all the courage you need in order to grab a fistful of his stupid, gross t-shirt, yank him down, and kiss him. 

       To your surprise he kisses back instantly, large hand cupping either of your cheeks and holding you in place until you’re hard-pressed for air. He then kisses your cheeks and your eyelids and your forehead in such a gentle gesture that your eyes water again. “You’re such a fucking idiot,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “How did you become such an idiot?”

       You clench your hands tighter in the fabric of his shirt. “I learned from the best.”

       He laughs weakly, holds you closer. “I’m way too old for this shit, kid.”

       You lean back enough to look him in the eye and you almost gasp when you see his eyes glazed with tears, raw with worry and fear and  _ adoration _ that you’ve never noticed there before. “Promise me that you won’t make me do something that stupid ever again,” you say as sternly as you can. “Promise me.” You hope that your point is clear--that it's not about you, that you're asking him, begging him even, to never take a gun to his own head ever again.

       “Yeah, yeah, I promise.” When he notices your apprehensive look he grabs the back of your head, drags you forward for another kiss and it’s perfect, god it’s  _ perfect _ , it’s everything you’ve ever imagined. “I promise,” he says right against your mouth. “As long as you promise not to give me another fucking heart attack.”

       You smile widely (because it’s sweet but also because you’re never, ever going to do anything like that ever again, not when you’re genuinely unsure whether or not the gun would have fired--you can almost hear Connor’s voice in the back of your head rattling off your percentage of survival). You kiss him again because you can’t help it. “I’ll think about it.” 

       He finally leans away from you, stands back to his full height but keeps his hands on you like he’s afraid that if he lets go you’re going to grab for the gun again. “Oh, and there’s one other condition.”

       You raise an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

       He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, to the mess of now-cold pasta and sauce that smear his floor. “Clean that shit up.”

       You laugh, feeling as light as a feather, and somehow happier than you were when you first got to the house despite everything. “You’re lucky I love you, Hank Anderson.” 

       He smiles, and it might not be that smile that you want from the photo but it’s soft, genuine, something you’ve never seen on him before and it’s meant exclusively for you. “Yeah, I’d say I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on "This is Gospel" by Panic! at the Disco. 
> 
> Russian Roulette fucked me up, my dudes. The whole game fucked me up, but that moment was so intense and I felt like exploring that since a relationship with Hank would require confronting difficult subjects like that.
> 
> I hope I did it justice.


End file.
